I lived in that house for over a year, above the sonorous moan of the freeways. When I arrived, it was protected by vines. I was half convinced they sent me messages, as they poked and prodded at my windows. When I left, I took them with me. It felt like a temporal space, a juncture- heavy with expired gusts of air from destinations past and future, the now and gone, the been and had. I made my bed in an open vortex, an invisible ley-line curled above the lips of the freeway. When I lived there, I was burdened by a supernatural sort of starvation. Not of the flesh, but of the soul.
There was no air conditioning in that house. I could only rely on the shadows of the vines to protect me from the assault of summer. On the worst of days, the heat pinned me down by the shoulders, and glued me to my linen. It sprawled me out like a star on my California king. And my grief became an open vortex, propelling me into the deepest recesses of grief, so ancient and large it had to belong to the earth herself.
In that house, I was forced to believe against all odds, against all known evidence- in investing in a looming invisible. It was a paranormal pocket of Beachwood, neighboring an abandoned mystery school, a magnet for surreal circumstances. In it’s walls I was forced to surrender the desire for logic, for I had made my home in a portal. I only found my way out by retracing unseen steps, humming blindly in sync with the static of that which I couldn’t see. Feeling the forgotten grief, the feelings half-felt, the psychic stories abandoned. I tried to interpret the breath of God, as his constellations flickered and hissed into my trajectory.
Invisible things incite fear because they are not forseeable and not linear. People are afraid of experiences that are not linear, experiences that deviate, diverge, digress. Answers that evade them, ghosts of memories without clear motives- the unknown space between them and what they want.
They worship what is concrete and visible. They crave a single course, stick to the sonorous moan of the freeway that propels them up and forward, promising a straight route. They require sororities and sanctuaries- sects and subdivisions, routes to convert to clout and catholicism..plotted out by a predetermined genetic generator.
There are two kinds of routes: those you are born into and must escape, and those you choose to enter in as an open channel, without any distinct picture of what lies ahead.